The Prophecy of Fire
by Kouri no Ryuu
Summary: (Sorry; this story is being revamped/revisited/redecorated.) It's the group's fifth year at Hogwarts--but will a double prophecy, made by one of the most unlikely of persons, change the lives of everyone?
1. Prologue: What Dreams May Tell

THE PROPHECY OF FIRE  
Book I: Taken  
Prologue: What Dreams May Tell

Written by Kouri no Ryuu

* * * * *

_Author's Notes: This is a fifth-year Harry Potter fic. It's quite good, in my not-so-humble opinion, but that's only because of my wonderful former beta-reader, Lily White. She did wonderfully._

This chapter alone has been in the works for well over two years now. The story has been fiddled with and such for about two and a half years, changing from names such as "Harry Potter and the Dragon Armlet" (later "Harry Potter and the Shadow Armlet") to "The Blood Bond" to other such nonsense, and it was filled to the brim with Mary Sue goodness. Then it reached "The Prophecy of Fire," and took a whole new twist.

It is the first in a four-part series. This story itself, "The Prophecy of Fire," is actually quite long (more than thirty chapters total, not counting the prologues and epilogues), but I have broken it into two Books: "Taken" (Book I) and "The Downfall of Hogwarts" (Book II), each fifteen chapters or so when it's finished. The sequel to PoF is "The Order of the Phoenix" (that would be my version, not the real book), and the sequel to _that_ is "The Resistance." It has been planned out already, beginning to end, so don't worry about me losing my inspiration.

The quote that starts out the chapter is from the movie "The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers."

* * * * *

_Will you look into the mirror?_

What shall I see?

Even the wisest cannot tell. For the mirror shows many things: things that were, things that are ... and some things that have not yet come to pass ...

* * * * *

_One week into summer vacation._

Ginny Weasley bolted upright in her bed and screamed: a loud, shrill sound in the still of the night. The moonlight cascaded in through her window, highlighting her bright reddish-gold hair and illuminating her alabaster skin. Her nightgown was plastered to her body with sweat, her eyes wide and her mouth open with fright.

Her bedsheet lay in a tangled heap around her, and her pillow had fallen to the floor.

_What ...?_ she wondered vaguely, unable to make her thoughts coherent, even to herself. Her right hand scrunched a handful of her blanket tightly. _Why ...?_ Forcing herself to take deep breaths, she slowly relaxed, and her body slumped until her chin was tucked to her chest.

"Gin? Gin! What's wrong?" a familiar voice demanded as they strode into her bedroom, almost slamming it against the opposite wall in their hurry. Ginny gasped and turned around just in time to see one of the twins, side-lit by the moonlight, his skin appearing to almost glow.

"Oh, you scared me! Fred or George?" She squinted, her eyes not used to the darkness and unable to identify the speaker.

"George. Did you have another nightmare?" His voice almost parental with worry, he sat down beside her. "Was it ... one of those?"

She took several more deep breaths. "That was ... it was scary. Yeah, it was a nightmare ... one of those ..." She stared at her royal-blue bedspread, not wanting to see his reaction.

"Another one? When was the last time you had one?" His reaction greatly resembled what she had predicted: terrified, concerned, apprehensive; the same things she felt. "I know you had a really nasty one when you were ten, and then year before last and this spring. What was it about this time?" He tried to speak comfortingly, reassuringly, as an older brother should, he thought.

"This was the first one since the spring." Her voice shaking and her hands clenched at her sides, Ginny forced herself to cast her mind back, to the terrifying minutes before while she slept ...

The dream ...

Someone screaming ... a woman in a cloak, bright-eyed and eager to prove herself ... a horrible, snakelike face ... red eyes ... the overwhelming presence of evil ... a high-pitched, shrill, terrible voice ... a snake, intimidating ... that odd green light ... the scent of death hovering in the air ...

She related this to George, slowly and haltingly at first, but slowly gaining courage from her familiar surroundings. He sucked in a deep breath after she had finished her story. "Wow, Gin, that's not good. Do you think--do you think it will happen again? You know, what happened last time?"

Ginny didn't answer for several moments. Shivering, she concentrated on untwisting her blanket from around her and wrapped herself in it loosely before answering. "I hope not ... That was awful ..." She glanced up at George again, her brown eyes bright with uncertainty and fear.

"Why d'you think you have dreams like these?" Wistfully George looked at the floor.

Ginny's head jerked up to look at him, her eyes strangely thoughtful.

"I hate them, they're not normal ... They scare you, I know they do," he continued.

"Yes," she said softly. George cast a sidelong glance at her.

"Why does this sort of thing have to happen to you? You, of all people?" He let out an exasperated sigh--not at Ginny, but himself. "At least it could be someone older--someone more able to handle them ... Me, or Fred, or Percy or someone."

"You think I can't--can't handle them?" Her voice became sharp and clear, as opposed to the sleepy, guttural murmur he had heard in the moments before. It sliced through the sudden tension in the room like a Severing Charm through silk.

George shook his head. "You know that's not what I mean. This has been happening for a long time now ... I mean, why does it have to be you? What do they mean?"

"I don't know," Ginny whispered. "Maybe ... I shouldn't want to. Maybe it would lead to more bad things ..."

George nodded. "Do you want to ask Mum to give you one of those dreamless sleep potions?" he asked concernedly. Ginny shook her head hard, her red hair bouncing around her profile.

"No ... Mum wouldn't understand. She'd just tell me I was being childish and that they were just silly nightmares." Her voice defiant, the corner of Ginny's mouth twisted into a smile, although with a trace of bitterness.

George drew in a deep breath and nodded. "Well, do you want me to stay with you for the night?" he suggested, putting a brotherly comforting arm around her shoulder. Brushing it off, Ginny shook her head and avoided her brother's eyes, staring at the vase on her nightstand as if it held the secrets to the universe.

"That's okay," she muttered. "I'm too old for that now, aren't I?"

George nodded again, understandingly, his lips pressed together as he didn't approve of leaving her alone, and left, perhaps uttering a "hope you sleep better." Ginny didn't pay attention.

Ginny couldn't shake the fact that it seemed important. It was just a nightmare ... if a particularly gruesome one. Ginny swung her feet over the side of her bed, sitting up, and picked her pillow up off the floor and deposited it on her bed. She only half-noticed that her hands trembled. Ginny collapsed onto her bed and tried to forget everything about the dream, but it had just seemed so real, so ... so _vivid_ ...

* * * * *

_The next night._

"I have no more use for you. I've had enough insubordination from you," hissed a low voice silkily.

The snakelike voice, always somewhat terrifying, made Lucius Malfoy tremble now. "What do you mean, Master?" He bent forward to kiss Voldemort's robes, but the Dark Lord shoved him away pitilessly. The thick black robes enveloping Voldemort shielded his face from view.

"I mean, Lucius"--here, Voldemort drew out the name like an insult--"that I have had enough of you." The wand in his hand rose to point at the shaking man.

"NO!" the elder Malfoy cried in desperation. "I'm still useful! I can still help you!" Voldemort eyed him carelessly, his wand hand held unwaveringly. 

The group of twenty-plus Death Eaters stood in a circle surrounding their Master, who sat on a throne, and the singled-out servant cowered in the middle of their circle. A dark, damp dungeon housed all the people in black robes and cloaks. Only a tiny shaft of light came through to the room, and a rotten smell constantly wafted through the air.

The snake at Voldemort's feet hissed plaintively. "Don't worry, Nagini," Voldemort soothed softly in Parseltongue. "There will be food for you yet." Though no one else in the room could understand their Master, they all had an idea of what he said and shifted uncomfortably and fearfully. Desperate tears streamed down Lucius's face as he pleaded, almost incoherently, for his Master to spare him.

"Lucius, Lucius, Lucius," said Voldemort softly. "What about your name? The fallen angel? Are you fallen yet, Lucius?"

Lucius remained on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably.

"'For Satan'--that is Lucifer, you know--'can disguise himself as an angel of light.' Lucifer, O Lucifer, what have you done? You have fallen, fallen hard, taking a third of the angels with you, down to the pits of hell ..." He gazed at Lucius. "That is from the Muggle Bible, of course."

"Of course, my Lord ..."

"'Of course,'" mocked Voldemort. His voice was gentle--almost tender--and somehow, it made the hairs on the necks of everyone in the room stand on end.

The Dark Lord's voice became hard, losing all of its former thoughtfulness and false gentility. "While good, loyal servants are hard to come by, Lucius, thanks be that you are not a good servant." Lucius quaked beneath his robes. "I have told you, time and time again, that the wretched Potter boy is protected by that wizened fool's Familius Charm. Yet you try, Lucius, time and time again to capture him!" Voldemort had started speaking at a normal level; now his voice rose to an enraged shout. "How many times have you endangered everything we stand for?! Sudden death is too good for you, I think. Before death, however ..." Voldemort paused, then whispered, _"Crucio Maximus,"_ his wand pointed at Lucius.

A jet of light sparkled at the tip of the Dark Lord's wand before hitting the former Death Eater square on his torso. A high-pitched scream rent the air, and Voldemort looked on expressionlessly as Lucius thrashed and shrieked on the stone floor. Pain, intense pain, spread like wildfire through his entire body. Lucius thought his throat would rupture from all his screaming, pleading and shouting. "I warned you about the price of failure, Lucius," said Voldemort softly, his wand still raised. "Is it my fault you didn't bother to listen?"

"No, Master, DON'T!! Please, I beg of you! PLEASE!" Lucius panted wearily after the torture spell ended. He clutched his right leg; he'd twisted it--maybe broken it--thrashing on the stone floor. Drool dripped from one corner of his mouth, and his eyes were tormented and dark. Pain still shot through every cell of his body; his muscles twitched from the curse's aftereffects.

_"Avada Kedavra!"_

Green light flashed throughout the stone dungeon, illuminating Voldemort's hideous face for a single instant.

"Be that a warning to anyone who crosses me!" roared the Dark Lord.

"Step forward," Voldemort ordered in a low, softly dangerous voice. A cloaked, hidden figure stepped out of the circle of Death Eaters.

"Master," a woman's voice whispered reverently, as she bowed at his feet. A lock of blond hair fell out of her black hood.

"I trust that you will do a better job than our dear departed friend Mr. Malfoy ...?" The Dark Lord's voice may have risen at the end, but as it was issuing from his lips, it sounded more like an order than a question.

The woman's emerald eyes sparkled malevolently, even in the poor light, as she rose to her knees before Voldemort. "I will, Master."

The Dark Lord's tone sounded challenging when he spoke. "You had better." The tone of his voice altered subtly. "Wait, Nagini. There is time before you must feed again. We will save Lucius's body as a testament to Lord Voldemort. We'll fly the Death Eater mark in the sky once again, my pet ..."

* * * * *

_Act like me ..._

_Why should I?_ Draco thought hazily, suddenly. For one precious moment, his mind rose out of the mist engulfing it, and the thought was clear, and straight as a poisoned arrow. _I hate you ... Why would I want to be you? ..._

The thought returned more forcefully: _Act like me!_

_Yes, Father, I will ..._

The next moment, he felt a horrible shock, as keen as pain in its own right. It lanced through his body, and he nearly fell to the floor, gasping for breath. The haze in his mind had disappeared, leaving only the realization that he was free. Free from Lucius, free from the Death Eaters ... free from Voldemort, maybe.

_What's happened?_ Draco thought fearfully. _He never takes off the Curse unless he beats me. But he's gone to some Death Eater convention ... that's what he said, anyway ..._

Draco desperately wanted to try to figure out what had happened, but then a more forceful urge hit him--the urge to leave before Lucius came back. Slowly he rose to his feet, aware that the curse hadn't been taken off him for nearly a year and that he was barely familiar with his body anymore. Draco broke out into a clumsy run towards his bedroom, stumbling often as he did.

Through slender stained-glass windows, Draco could see black lightning strike outside--_Wait, black lightning?_ he wondered for a moment, but pushed the thought away for the moments. Several seconds later, thunder rumbled, shaking the foundations of the Malfoy Estate. Draco jumped. _Idiot,_ Draco thought to himself without rancor, _this Estate has stood for years through even the most powerful of magical storms, it's not just going to fall down on your head because it doesn't want you to leave._

He pulled out the trunk he always used for Hogwarts (it was in his rather spacious closet) and opened it. Hurriedly, for he was still afraid that Lucius would return, he dumped some wizard gold into it along with his school robes and books.

_It's time to leave this dump behind ..._

* * * * *

Harry's hand shot straight up to the jagged scar on his forehead as it tingled painfully. _Not again,_ he prayed silently, _this can't happen again_. He remembered this time, last year, when he had woken up with his scar hurting, when Voldemort had killed someone.

But this time he had been awake, wide awake, for he hadn't been able to sleep that night. Perhaps luckily, he admitted to himself. He didn't care to wake up screaming around the Dursleys, or overexcite his sleeping owl, Hedwig.

Then he remembered what his godfather, Sirius, had told him the year before: go straight to Dumbledore if his scar hurt ever again. Harry paused, considering. _Well, I'm probably not going to get to sleep again, he thought, might as well bloody write to Dumbledore_ ... Harry glanced at the clock and groaned softly. In bright green letters it read, 2:46 a.m.

Harry's eyes fell on his owl's cage. Hedwig was a sweet snowy white owl by nature and often she carried messages and letters between him and his friends. But now ... Now there was a lock on her cage. Harry didn't know how to pick locks, and he didn't dare break the code for the restriction of magic outside of Hogwarts to let her out. But Sirius had told him to tell Dumbledore ... How could he do that, with his only means of delivering it in a locked cage?

Sighing, Harry quietly pulled up a wooden floorboard. Underneath it lay all of his schoolbooks, his favorite eagle-feather quill, some parchment, and ... a hairpin. He had snitched the hairpin from his aunt Petunia one day after it fell out of her hair. He'd hoped to use it to unlock the cupboard and Hedwig's cage, but he hadn't been sure how.

_Should've asked Fred and George when they came and rescued me before second year,_ he thought ruefully. Oh, well ... no time like the present to learn. Picking it up, Harry first used it to tap lightly on Hedwig's cage, trying to wake her up. "Hedwig!" he whispered. "Shh, shh!" he added when she opened a sleepy eye and came as close to glaring as an owl could. Harry hoped she could understand his furious gesticulations to not make a noise.

After six long minutes (he would have sworn that it took longer than an hour), he heard a faint click and pulled the lock off. "Shh," he repeated softly, looking sternly at Hedwig, who looked at him, sleepily irritable.

Fortunately, the Dursleys had foregone barring his window this year, probably on account of Sirius Black, his godfather and convict. "Just a minute, Hedwig," he whispered.

Grabbing his quill and a scrap of parchment, Harry scribbled a short note to the Headmaster, keeping in mind the warning not to use Sirius's name.

_Professor Dumbledore,_ it ran__

My godfather told me to tell you whenever my scar started hurting again. It did tonight, and I was already awake and all of a sudden, it just started aching. I wasn't dreaming or even daydreaming.

Harry

He quickly folded the note and tied it with an emerald-green ribbon. He stuffed the letter in Hedwig's mouth and she gave a muffled squeak of protest. Harry opened the window and whispered, "Take this to Professor Dumbledore, quickly."

Hedwig squeaked lightly again and almost stepped outside her cage. Fluttering her wings a few times to become re-used to open space, Harry's owl hopped a few times on the nightstand, and finally spread her wings and launched off the nightstand and flew his open window, soaring into the night. Harry watched Hedwig fly away until she faded into a speck in the distance.

Three seconds after Hedwig disappeared, Harry realized a fatal flaw in his plan: The Dursleys would most definitely notice that Hedwig was gone.

Harry felt like slapping himself on the forehead.

_Oh, shoot,_ he thought.


	2. Letters

THE PROPHECY OF FIRE  
Chapter One: Letters  
Written by Kouri no Ryuu

_Author's notes: Just so you know ... This chapter is raw--and I mean, raw. No beta'ing, no editing (except for my own, of course), but I do think it's okay in terms of grammar and characterization and such._

If you don't like how I made Krum ... well ... Too bad. Sorry.

I also happen to think that what I did to Draco was pretty darn creative. Don't worry, he's not really a "good guy" and probably never will be. He will not also resemble DS!Draco in the slightest ... for all you hopefuls.

* * * * *

_Dear Professor McGonagall,_

I have my extra-credit assignment on Transmogrification Potions complete. Would you like for me to bring it on the first day of school or owl you with it earlier?

Sincerely,  
Hermione Granger

* * * * *

Hermione Granger looked on in surprise as a tawny, feathered messenger dropped through her open window and deposited a package on her bed. "Oh ... aren't you Headmaster Dumbledore's owl?" she asked absentmindedly as she picked up the package and opened it.

The most recent issue of the _Daily Prophet_ fell on her bed, along with a letter from ... the Headmaster? Hermione picked up the newspaper first, morbid curiousity taking hold. On the cover someone had put up a particularly horrible picture of Lucius Malfoy. It made her shudder.

_"DEATH EATER KILLED IN HIS MANSION!"_ blared the headline in enormous shimmering letters, and Hermione stared at it. Then her eyes flicked to the front-page picture again. Lucius Malfoy, dead? Swiftly scanning the newspaper, she spotted phrases such as, _"... Dark Mark found on corpse ..." "... Dungeon ..." "... Unforgivable Curses ..." "... Dark Mark hovering above the Estate ..."_ and _"... Wife, Narcissa, opened up the Malfoy Estate for Auror inspection ..."_

Hermione stared at it, shocked and at a complete loss for words. Stunned, she shook her head. She put the newspaper copy down, vowing to read it more thoroughly after she had read the letter. Hermione opened the envelope and unfolded two pieces of parchment. The first read:

_Dear Miss Hermione Granger, _

We at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry are pleased to inform you that you have been chosen as a Gryffindor prefect for the upcoming school year of 1995 to 1996.

To fully ensure your best performance as a prefect, we ask that you spend the remaining month of the summer vacation at Hogwarts. Of course, it is optional, but it is certainly preferable. During this time you will learn about the responsibilites of prefects.

We hope to hear from you soon.

Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress at Hogwarts

"YES!" Hermione shouted, flinging the letter into the air. It landed askew on her bed next to the _Daily Prophet_ edition.

Her mother, Leigh Granger, poked her head in through the door. "Is something wrong, dear?" she asked, her usually mild brown eyes curious, brushing flour-dusted hands on her apron.

"Nothing's wrong," Hermione assured her. "Something's right!" She noticed her mother's hands, covered in flour, and frowned in mock disapproval.

Leigh smiled. "Care to tell me?" She took notice of Hermione's amusement and grinned sheepishly. "I'm baking cookies from scratch for a _treat,_" she stated, emphasizing the _treat_. "Don't expect this to happen often." She shook her right index finger in her daughter's face mock-sternly.

Hermione chortled. "Mum, you bake cookies practically once a year. I've never gotten used to it! I suppose it's semi-sweet chocolate, eh?"

"Right in one," Leigh responded with a smile. "Don't want to spoil our teeth, do we?" With a sudden pointed glance toward Hermione, Leigh said pleasantly, "Now what happened that's made you so happy?"

"I'm a Hogwarts prefect this year," she informed her mum, who beamed proudly.

"It's a good thing I'm baking these cookies!" Leigh exclaimed. "Now we really have something to celebrate!"

"There's just one problem," Hermione added with a sudden, worried frown. "Oh, no." She rushed over to her calender, flipped to August, and promptly moaned. Those two weeks were covered in hearts, written in red permanent marker. "Oh, no!" She promptly buried her face in her hands.

"What is it, dear?" Leigh wanted to know.

Hermione flopped onto her bed. "That's when I'm supposed to visit Viktor!" she wailed. "Those days _exactly_! I wish this wasn't happening ..."

Alarmed, Leigh saw that her daughter was about to burst into tears. "Dear, I'm sure Viktor will understand," she said, intending to be reassuring. "He knows that this sort of thing is important to you."

Hermione looked up with sudden determination, her arms crossed over her chest. "No; McGonagall will just have to understand. I _swore_ that this year I wouldn't be so uptight and scholastically driven, so .... I guess ... I'll visit Viktor instead," she stammered out. It almost killed her to say that.

Although Leigh still looked concerned, she said, "Well ... if you're sure, dear, then that's all right ..." Her eyes jerked wide open and one hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, dear, I shouldn't have left the dough out on the counter ... You know how your father is with cookie dough ... Excuse me, dear, will you?" Leigh fled, Hermione smiling absently.

With that settled, she looked at the other two letters. One, she was fairly sure would turn out to be a list of school supplies and textbooks, and it did. But the other ...

_Dear Miss Hermione Granger, _

We at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry request that you **do** spend the remaining time at Hogwarts. You are the prefect that is closest to Harry Potter and we would appreciate your aid in retrieving him from his relatives.

More will be explained if you decide to help us.

Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress at Hogwarts

Hermione stared at the parchment blankly. _They want me to come to Hogwarts to help them rescue Harry from the Dursleys?_ she wondered. _No, no, no! This can't happen ... I had it all planned out ..._

She tried to sort it out logically in her mind. _I could help Harry escape from that family; they're really awful. Definitely the better option. Oh, but I _do_ want to visit Viktor. I already promised him I'd come._

A flash of pain rose from her mouth, and Hermione tasted something coppery. "Just what I needed," Hermione muttered out loud, "physical pain to go along with my dilemma." She examined her bitten lip with a mirror, still thinking.

"I ... I'll ... go with--Viktor," she said unsteadily. "Ron can help Harry, I suppose. I'll just ... just ... _abandon_ Harry! I do hate difficult decisions." She nodded to herself, pacing around her bedroom.

"Viktor," she said to herself at last.

So she penned this reply:

_Dear Professor McGonagall,_

I'm very sorry, but I can't come and rescue Harry, although I really would like to. I have a foreign engagement I have to go to at that time, and I can't break it now. Why don't you see if Ron Weasley can do it? He's much better at "covert operations" and such than I am.

Sincerely,  
Hermione Granger

She felt awful abandoning Harry like that, but there you go ... If she wanted a reputation as something more than a geeky bookworm _sans_ the Coke-bottle glasses, she would have to work at it.

Then she picked up the front-page article about Lucius Malfoy.

_At the Malfoy Estate, the body of patriarch Lucius Malfoy  
was found in his dungeon, the Dark Mark found on his corpse. He  
was found by a house-elf in a dungeon below the ground._

"We're not sure yet why Lucius was killed," Cornelius Fudge,  
Minister of Magic, said. "We're still trying to find out why someone  
would want to kill him."

The Dark Mark on his forearm, however, was found by Ministry  
specialists to be genuine, leaving the magical community in shock.

"The Dark Mark was found on him, and it was real," Bertelloni  
Montessori, Auror, said. "It matches the marks left on the bodies of  
captured and executed known Death Eaters." Montessori studies  
symbols and runes as a hobby.

Doctors at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies have  
ascertained that Malfoy was most likely killed by the Killing Curse,  
one of the three Unforgivable Curses.

"The body of Lucius Malfoy contained no marks, such as you would  
expect from a Burning or Freezing Curse," Xavier Travers, doctor at  
St. Mungo's, said. "On his face was an expression of pure fear, such  
as is common with victims of the Killing Curse."

Soon after the house-elf had discovered Malfoy's body, passers-by  
and neighbors woke up to find the Dark Mark hovering above the Estate.

"It was extremely frightening," Rosa Parkinson, a neighbor to  
the Malfoys, said. "Waking up and finding that_ above someone's  
house again!"_

Malfoy's wife, Narcissa, opened up the Malfoy Estate for Auror  
inspection, stating that she knew her husband was a Death Eater, but  
that she had been threatened with her life if she ever revealed it  
to anyone.

"Horrible as death may be," Narcissa said, "Lucius's death is  
really rather convenient, as I never approved of what he was doing  
and wish to leave all of that sort of thing in the past."

Absently Hermione wondered what Draco was doing.

* * * * *

_A week later._

"Cho, honey, it's dinnertime!" Cho Chang's mother, Xian, called up the stairs. Her mother didn't usually call her "honey"--Cho intensely disliked endearing terms like that--but Cho didn't notice it.

"Not hungry," Cho answered, though it came out more of a mumble. _Just leave me alone,_ she added silently. She stared out the window; rain pelted it relentlessly and ruthlessly. That--and the thunder and lightning--created a strange rhythm that oddly soothed her.

Cho heard the sharp _tap-tap-tap_ of footsteps on the stairway leading to her bedroom. It disturbed her peaceful lull in serenity. "What was it you said?" asked her mother apprehensively as she opened Cho's bedroom door.

"I'm not hungry! Can't you hear me? I said that already," Cho repeated irascibly, her eyes wandering absently over her comfortable bedroom. The floor was carpeted in a soft shade of ivory and sea-green sheets and pillows adorned her wooden, four-poster bed. Several photographs hung on the walls, mostly her family. A single framed photo of Cedric stood on a nighttable beside her bed. Cho sighed and closed her eyes as they fell upon it.

Her mother bristled. "That's no way to talk to your mother, young lady," Mrs. Chang ordered sternly. "Besides, that's the excuse you've used all summer!"

"So?" muttered Cho. "It's not like I have anything to live for anymore, now that Voldemort murdered Cedric ..." She had long since lost any reluctance to say the Dark Lord's true name.

"You've got to pack to go to Hogwarts; you're a prefect," her mother attempted cautiously.

"So?" Cho repeated lifelessly. But before either could speak again, the doorbell rang out insistently behind them.

"Oh, dear me, I must answer that," Mrs. Chang said, fluttering her hands and leaving in a dramatic exit.

Cho sighed, her brown eyes lifeless. Once again, Cho heard the _tap-tap-tap_ of footsteps on the stairs, but it sounded different.

"Look who's shown up!" Mrs. Chang beamed. "Ashleigh!" Cho glanced up, and yes, Ashleigh Parker--Cho Chang's best friend--stood in front of her, a bit soaked from the squall line outside. No doubt some great, intensive battle was happening on the other side of the world; Elemental battles usually caused violent thunderstorms elsewhere. "Well, I'll leave you two friends to talk, but mind, Ashleigh, Cho needs to eat dinner soon." With that, Xian Chang left.

Several moments of intensive, uncomfortable silence passed. "Don't tell me you're still sad about that Diggory?" Ashleigh asked, breaking the proverbial ice, her blue eyes innocent and wide.

That, at least, brought a rise out of Cho. Her head jerked up, no longer listless. "What?" she demanded, not quite believing what she had thought she'd heard.

Ashleigh sighed in exasperation and tucked her short, layered mahogony hair behind her ears. "You heard me," she said, her fingers drumming impatiently on Cho's writing desk. "I mean, I know you liked him, but can't you just get over him? I mean, the whole 'serious and deep' guy-type is so _not_ hot anymore. Guys like Draco Malfoy are hot. Sexy--"

But Cho cut her "best friend" off as she jumped to her feet. "Leave. Now," she ordered, her eyes flaring in anger--no, in _rage_. "How dare you? _I thought you were my friend!_ I loved--love--Cedric and I _always_ will! Don't you ever forget that." Cho's breath came quickly, as did her softly angry words. "I will never _get over_--as you so crassly said it--him. He is a part of me and I am a part of him and nothing nor no one can stop that!"

Ashleigh stared at Cho in total disbelief. Slowly she stood up, keeping one perfectly manicured hand on her waist. Her words sounded icy and cold. "If that's the way you feel about your best friend of _five years_, fine. I'll go." Without another word, Cho's "best friend of five years" flounced out of her bedroom without so much as a backward glance.

Cho sank onto her bed and buried her face in her hands. _Why doesn't anyone understand?_

* * * * *

_The next day._

An owl fluttered through Ron Weasley's window and he looked up, surprised. "School owl," he surmised wisely. "List of books and all ... bloody buggering annoying, that is."

But it carried well more than the normal four letters. In all, he counted six letters and a newspaper: the _Daily Prophet_. _Do we even subscribe to them?_ he asked himself, but put it out of his mind. Absentmindedly Ron flicked through the letters, surprised to find not a letter for himself--but rather, three letters, all tied in red ribbon. Each bore his name and address in neat green script. Tearing open the first letter with a raggedly bitten fingernail, he read:

_Dear Mr. Ron Weasley,_

We at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry are pleased to inform you that you have been chosen as a Gryffindor prefect for the upcoming school year.

To fully insure your best performance as a prefect, you are invited to stay at Hogwarts. We at Hogwarts ask that you come spend the remaining time before school begins here.

We hope to hear from you soon.

Minerva McGonagall, deputy Headmistress at Hogwarts.

Ron's brown eyes widened in shock. "Mum? Mum! C'mere!"

At the sound of her youngest son's frantic voice, Mrs. Weasley rushed up the stairs to his room. "Ron! What on earth is happening?" She saw the letter on his bed and her eyes widened too--but this time in motherly pride. "Is that a _prefect letter_?" Her voice rose in excitement.

"Yep," Ron said in a monotone voice. "But I think they've made a mistake."

Mrs. Weasley looked at her son as she would look at someone who had just claimed to have eaten two hundred Chocolate Frogs and ended up with only cards of Newt Scamander. "Why would it be a mistake, Ron?"

"Well, it's not like I'm prefect material, am I?" he pointed out dolefully. "I'll bet this is for Fred or George and just got sent to me by accident or something."

"That's nonsense!" Mrs. Weasley snapped, picking up the letter. "Besides, it's addressed to you, it says _Dear Mr. Ron Weasley_ on it. And Fred and George are even less prefect material," she added, wrinkling her nose. "Honestly. Of course it's for you!"

"D'you really think so?" Ron's voice held a thin thread of hope. "You really think it's mine?"

"Yes, dear," Mrs. Weasley said, and then suddenly seemed to realize what this meant and burst with pride and enveloped her son in an enormous--and quite tight--bear hug. "Oh, Ron!" The waterworks began.

"Mum, please don't strangle me before I get the chance to _be_ a prefect ..."

* * * * *

Ron massaged his ribs. He had begun to think that he really wouldn't be able to breathe. "Ow," he muttered, casting a dark glance at the door through which Mrs. Weasley had finally left. "Does she _have_ to do that every time something more exciting than a flying pig comes along?" He fell back onto his bed, but a crackling noise made him jerk back up again.

Turning around, he saw the other five letters on his bed, smushed and looking rather worse for the wear. Ron picked up the two other letters addressed to him. "What on earth could these be?" he wondered aloud. He dug his finger under the Hogwarts seal of one and flicked it off. Pulling out the parchment inside, he thought it very odd that he would have three letters, prefect or no. 

_Dear Mr. Ron Weasley,_ it ran,__

We at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry request that you do spend the remainder of the summer holidays at the school. Your aid is needed in retrieving Harry Potter from his relatives.

More will be explained if you decide to help us.

Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress at Hogwarts

It was getting more odd all the time, thought Ron. First a prefect, then having to rescue Harry from that awful family he always complained about ...

Now he rather thought that it was one big Hogwarts conspiracy. _What'll they want of me next?_ he thought suspiciously, staring daggers at the third letter. _Dragon in the Forbidden Forest causing problems? Mind taking the job, Mr. Ron Weasley?_

_This is a list of school supplies and textbooks you will need as a fifth year for the upcoming school year of 1995 to 1996 ..._

_Well, duh,_ Ron thought, more than slightly annoyed with himself as his fantasies of a future career in killing Dark wizards as an Auror evaporated. _They just accidently put it in different envelopes, you git._

But even as the thought this, he unfolded the letter all the way, and something fell out of it.

He picked it up. It was a knife with a silver blade, but with traces of color playing around the edges that had nothing to do with the lighting. He held the blade up a little and saw his reflection mirrored in it, distorted but recognizable.

_What on earth?_ Ron thought, dumbfounded. _Maybe they do want me to kill some dragon or something ..._

He set it down on his nighttable, still eyeing it curiously.

* * * * *

_Dear Mandy,_

I've had the most miserable summer imaginable. I know I said I would lighten up and not be so uptight, but I didn't think it would turn out like this!

I went to Viktor's on Thursday, and I was supposed to stay there until school started. Well, it was loads of fun at first--he's got a huge manor and even fields for Muggle sports like tennis and such--until I caught him making out with a flake named Rose Ytterby. He didn't even know I was there. When I was packed and about to leave, he came to talk to me, wondering why on earth I would be leaving (hear sarcasm?) and I swear I almost slapped him! I was so angry. He said he has a harem every summer, but that he always loved one, and this year he said it was me. Hooray.

So I left by wizard taxi. Well, his mum is really sweet, anyway.

So now I've got to find a place to stay. No offense, but with four younger brothers and sisters, I don't feel like staying with you. My parents are out of town and even if they weren't, they'd say "I told you so" because they didn't want me staying with a guy for the summer anyway. I think I'll try and stay with the Weasleys. I've already sent them an owl explaining my situation. There should only be Ron, Ginny, and the twins staying (and they're a maybe; Fred said he'd try to visit his girlfriend Angelina and his friend Lee Jordan), so I guess I won't be much of a hindrance. And they're all around my age. But I still don't think Mrs. Weasley is entirely warm with me anymore, even when Harry said Rita Skeeter's article was fake.

Write back soon!

Love,  
Hermione

* * * * *

_Dear Mr and Mrs Weasley,_

I need to ask a favor of you, but if I am overstepping my boundaries, please forgive me. Would it be all right if I stayed with your family for the remainder of the summer?

I was staying with Viktor Krum for part of the holidays, but after my personal lines had been stepped over, I am now looking for another place to stay. My parents are not at home; right now they're vacationing in Ireland, and cannot keep me.

I hope I am not imposing too much.

Sincerely,  
Hermione Granger

* * * * *

_Thanks to these reviewers: Gogirl, The Naiad, E.K.Nighthawk, herm, Mastermind, VyingQuill~, She's a Star, Xoni Newcomer, fawkesgirl, Guy Fawkes, Liza, Lily White, becki~, inscriffany, Evil*Fairy, Alphie, plz, trss, peachylaura, potter fan, LilyAyl, Romily McAran, Lee, Camden Elisabeth Stephano, KJ._

Please review! Feedback, good or bad, is always welcome. :)


	3. The Great Escape

THE PROPHECY OF FIRE  
Chapter Two: The Great Escape

Written by Kouri no Ryuu

_Author's Notes: Sorry that this was so long in the making. I'd had most of it done a long time ago, but there was one scene--the last--that I had trouble with. Sorry about that. It's pretty un-beta'd ... I'd say totally un-beta'd. But I hope you like it anyway. And no, I'm not quite sure what's going to happen to Vernon. You can also find this fanfiction at or at its website: ._

* * * * *

"WHAT'SHH WRONG WITH YOU, BOY?!" roared Vernon Dursley, his face apopletically purple. "DIDN'T WE TELL YOU TO KEEP THAT--RUDDY--BIRD--LOCKED--UP?!" He grabbed Harry by the back of his collar and almost lifted him off the ground.

Harry tried to look calm. But he had _never_, not in his life, seen his uncle this angry before, and it rather scared him.

Harry could smell Vernon's breath; it reeked of cheap whisky and cigarette ash. Vernon shook Harry by his collar, and Harry grabbed his uncle's meaty fist and tried to pry off the fingers.

Vernon shook him harder. "None of that, boy!" he roared, and Harry let go. His glasses fell askew, half-on and half-off his face.

His rank breath blasted Harry full in the face. The overpowering smell of alcohol was nauseating Harry. He clutched at his stomach and squeezed his eyes shut, praying that he wouldn't puke all over Vernon.

Vernon shook Harry again. Harry flopped back and forth like a rag doll. His stomach rolled over wildly, and bile rose in his throat, but Harry swallowed it back down.

_Don't hurt me ... please ... feeling sick ..._

"Vernon," said Petunia in a small voice. She stood safely away from the action, nervous hands clutching her apron. "Vernon, don't _kill_ him."

"Ssshhut up, woman!" slurred Vernon, swaying from side to side, his beady eyes glazing over.

Without warning, Vernon collapsed in a heap on the laminate wood floor. Harry, released, dropped to the ground with a _thud_, trembling. His hands went up to his neck and he began to gasp.

Petunia meeped and rushed over to Vernon to make sure he wasn't dead. Afer she brushed some dust away from his unconscious form, and adjusted his position to that of a more comfortable one, she turned to Harry.

Petunia straightened his shirt collar and adjusted his glasses to sit straight on his nose. After several moments, she said, "It would be best if you just ... went back to your room."

Harry nodded without saying anything and turned away. His footsteps fell heavy as he neared the stairs. Just before he stepped foot on them, his aunt spoke again, her voice timid.

"Harry?"

Harry couldn't remember a single instance in which she had ever called him by his proper name.

"Yes?" he said, turning to face her.

_You old cow._

Petunia wrung her hands and refused to meet his eye. "Well ... do you mind ... please don't, umm, mention this ... incident ... to your, umm, your godfather ..."

_Coward. You're not concerned about me at all. You jsut want to save your old hide from big bad Sirius Black. The escaped murderer. Bet _that_ scares you._

"Why should I?" he asked instead.

Petunia shook her head. "This is the only time that will happen, I promise. I'll make sure nothing like that ever happens again ... Please." She glanced over he shoulder to her husband, then back at her nephew.

Her sharp eyes held a kind of fear that even Harry could recognize.

It was the fear of the mouse chased by the cat.

Harry nodded slowly, then turned back to the stairs.

* * * * *

_Two days later, at noon._

Ron Weasley stood at the entrance to Hogwarts, dressed in Muggle clothes and carrying a trunk in one hand. _This is where I'm supposed to be,_ he thought, absently glancing downwards at the letter she'd received when she replied to the first.

"Mr. Weasley, there you are," came the strict, no-nonsense voice of Professor McGonagall. "I've been searching for you."

Ron turned around, relief evident on his face. Professor McGonagall walked towards him and opened the entrance to the castle imperiously.

"Come this way," the Transfiguration teacher ordered, steering Ron up the stairs until they reached the boys' dormitories. "There's one other Gryffindor prefect that will come. I _am_ very glad you chose to come to Hogwarts, Mr. Weasley." His ears flushed with a mixture of pride and pleasure.

"Professor?" asked Ron tentatively, a bit overwhelmed.

McGonagall shot a slightly surprised look at him. "Yes?" she queried.

"You said something about Harry and the Dursleys in your letter?"

"Yes, that," she responded, nodding sharply. "Don't worry about it right now. You should get settled in. After you do, please make your way to the Headmaster's office. He will brief you on what you'll be doing. The password is 'white chocolate'. I suppose you've heard the news?"

"About Lucius Malfoy popping off? Yeah, I got it with the prefect letter. What'll happen to Malfoy and his mum?"

A frown creased the deputy Headmistress's brow. "We're still not sure. Mrs. Malfoy has opened up their--hers, now--manor house for the Ministry to inspect. That's a few points in her favor. And young Malfoy's never done anything illegal--so far. He has no record of law-breaking. In fact, he's a Slytherin prefect this year. He's already arrived."

Ron attempted not to gag. Not particularly wanting to continue on the topic of Draco Malfoy, he changed the subject. "Who are the other Gryffindor prefects?" He knew Lavender or Parvati couldn't be prefects.

McGonagall nodded, like she'd expected that question. "Nerissa Warbeck'll be coming here in a few days--she's a sixth year prefect, so is Rina Taget, who isn't coming this summer, and neither is your friend, Miss Granger. Sadly, this year," she heaved a deep sigh of disappointment, "there aren't any seventh years. Oh, and Seamus Finnegan, he's here. Your year, I believe?" the deputy Headmistress stated (it was not really a question) in her usual brisk and detached manner before turning to leave.

Ron dropped his trunk next to a bed and began to unpack it thoughtfully. He didn't know much about the other prefect. In fact, they'd never met. As he pulled out his spare black robes, hat, and dragon hide gloves, he thought, _I wonder what she'll be like. Good thing Seamus is here ..._

Up in Dumbledore's office, the Headmaster watched Fawkes the pheonix shed a few more feathers. He heard a knock on the door and a muffled voice.

"Headmaster?"

"Do come in, Mr. Weasley," Dumbledore called out, still staring at Fawkes. He turned around when Ron entered, looking apprehensive.

"Sir? Professor McGonagall told me to come here after I unpacked my trunk," he said nervously. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Oh, yes, on the matter of Harry. Come here," he said, beckoning him to move forward. "I put a minor scrying spell on Harry before he left Hogwarts," he informed Ron, leaning forward. "The conditions he lives in at the Dursleys' are questionable at best. Here is what I'd like you to do, Ron ..."

* * * * *

_Two days later, at noon._

_Life cannot become worse,_ Harry Potter thought morosely. He leaned back onto his bed. _Nothing is worse than this._

A sharp rap on his door roused him from his thoughts. Internally he groaned. _Do I have to water and fertilize Petunia's flowerbeds_ again_?_ he wondered. "Yes?"

"There's a young man here to see you! Says you did something to his grandmother's flowers!" Petunia's voice reverberated sharply through the small room.

Bewildered, Harry sat up and walked to the door. "What?" he asked, opening the door.

Ron stood at the bottom of the steps. He stared at his friend, shocked. "Mr. Figg, tell Harry your story," Petunia said sweetly to Ron.

Ron swallowed nervously. "My grandmother, Arabella Figg, lives next door." It was surprisingly easy for him to lie. "I'm her grandson and I'm visiting her from Kent. I went out for a few groceries to make dinner. When I came back, she said a teenage boy with black hair and green eyes and a funny scar on his head had mutilated her flowerbed. She couldn't stop him, she's getting on in years, you know. Saw him through a window, she says. Mostly rare, expensive flowers," Ron added for good measure.

"Well, boy?" demanded Petunia, turning sharply to Harry. "What have you got to say for yourself?" Ron's eyes looked at him, pleading with him to play along, though he hadn't the foggiest where this was going.

Harry lowered his head. "Yes, I did it," he admitted, and he saw Ron give him a quick wink. Petunia's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"All those rare and expensive flowers, and all you can say is 'Yes, I did it'?!" his bony aunt shrieked. "How dare you?!"

Ron intervened. "Mrs. Dursley?" he asked quietly. Petunia turned to face him.

"Yes, my dear?" Apparently Petunia was fond of anyone who got Harry in trouble.

He hesitated before continuing. "Well, my grandmother has an idea. She wants me to watch him mend her flowerbed." Harry thought he detected the hint of a malicious smile growing on Petunia's face. "It'll take hours, you know," Ron added in a rush. "Good, hard work for four or so hours should teach him a lesson, she says." _Of course,_ thought a relieved Harry.

A glint appeared in Petunia's eyes, and Harry gulped nervously. No doubt _she_ would insist on watching him work and he'd _never_ escape. But Petunia said, "That sounds fair to me. Drop him off when he's done, will you? And don't let him out of your sight." Ron nodded obediently.

The horse-faced woman pivoted on her heel, calling out, "Duddykins, dear, did you do your summer homework?"

The second Petunia walked out of earshot, Ron turned to Harry with a grin. "Dumbledore sent me to rescue you," he confided. "Where's your trunk and Hedwig's cage? I'm going to bewitch them to Hogwarts."

Puzzled, Harry shook his head. "Underage witches and wizards can't do magic out of school," he reminded him.

"It's a restriction, they don't _forbid_ magic out of Hogwarts when there's an emergency," Ron whispered impatiently, then sheepishly grinned. "Sorry," he said, "Dumbledore told me there's a loophole yesterday."

"Oh, that's right," Harry whispered back. "Hermione said something like that when we flew the car to Hogwarts in our second year."

"Where's your bedroom, Harry?" he hissed, and Harry took him upstairs. When Petunia came to check on them, she glanced out the window and saw Harry working in the garden.

"Here," Harry said quietly, pulling up a loose floorboard. He picked up pieces of parchment, a quill, some ink, and a few schoolbooks. "The trunk's locked in the cupboard downstairs, I was able to filch a few things in the middle of the night."

"Wow," Ron admitted, glancing around his room, if one could call it that. "Dumbledore told me the living conditions here for you were bad, but I didn't imagine they were this bad." Harry shrugged, a bit embarrassed. Ron waved his wand over Hedwig's cage, murmuring a chant, and in with a _pop_ it disappeared. Harry, though, didn't notice. He kept peeking hastily out the crack in his bedroom door, waiting for Petunia to catch them.

Carrying all his pilfered school items in his arms, he whispered urgently, "C'mon, hurry up. Petunia's going to catch us." Ron shook his head with a mysterious grin and refused to say anything.

"_Alohomora,_" Ron whispered, unlocking the cupboard underneath the stairs. He opened the trunk itself and quietly dumped all of Harry's stuff in it. Ron glanced at Harry in embarrassment. "I can't charm something this heavy to go to Hogwarts," he admitted quietly. "We'll have to carry it outside."

"What?" Harry asked in a normal tone of voice, forgetting for a moment to be quiet. They both heard footsteps in the hallway. They crammed themselves into the cupboard and closed it almost all the way. Ron was tall and lanky, and almost squished Harry. Through the small crack, they saw Petunia come to investigate and then turn away with a shrug.

Ron was the first to open the door on his side and step out. He gestured for Harry to come out too. After a few seconds of stretching, they noticed Petunia washing some dishes. Every few seconds she would turn and look through the window and then turn back with a satisfied smile. For some reason, this made Ron grin even more.

As quietly as possible, the two friends crept out of the door and into the front yard. Harry saw himself working on the flowerbeds at Ms. Figg's house. Ron stood over him, barking out what looked like orders. "What?" he asked, amazed, pointing at the image. Ron chuckled.

"That's an enchantment," he told Harry. "Arabella Figg--the real one--conjured it for me so that Petunia wouldn't get suspicious. That's what she saw out of the kitchen window," she added. Hermione led Harry across the street, where someone had parked a red Ferrari.

"So, how many Figgs are there?" Harry asked, plainly confused. "The Dursleys' next-door neighbor, Mrs. Figg, can't be a witch."

"Arabella is one of Sirius's old friends; I pretended to be her grandson," Ron explained as they crossed the road to the parked car. "Mind you don't tell her that, though, she's not that old."

A woman--Harry guessed her to be about Sirius' and Remus' age--sat in the driver's seat on the right side. When she saw Ron and Harry, she beamed. "I wondered when you'd get back," she said. Her voice sounded rich and full with something of an Irish accent. "I'm Arabella Figg."

"Can you drive?" Harry asked cautiously. Arabella looked at him in surprise.

"Of course, what made you think I couldn't?"

"Well," Harry began, "most witches and wizards can't even operate a telephone"--Ron grinned--"much less a car."

Arabella nodded. "Well, I'm Muggle-born, known how to drive for years. Don't worry, you're safe with me. Come on, get in."

* * * * *

"Um, can I ask you something?" Harry asked, leaning forward so Figg could hear him, as he sat behind her. Unfamiliar land swept past on either side of Figg's Ferrari: forests he'd never seen, thick with trees.

Figg started and they almost drove off the road. "Um, sure."

"Where are we _going_?" Harry said. "Sorry, but this doesn't really look like the way to Hogwarts ..."

Figg turned to frown at Ron, almost driving into a tree as she did so. "You didn't tell him?"

Ron shrugged. "Was I supposed to?"

"Yes."

"Oh, okay then." He turned to face Harry. "We're not going to Hogwarts," he said, his face perfectly straight.

Harry felt as though he was getting nowhere. "So, then ... where are we going?"

Ron burst out laughing. "Shoulda seen the look on your face, like we were a pair of idiots." He grinned. "We're going to Ms. Figg's house."

"And ... why?" Harry wanted to know.

This time Figg spoke. "You're in a lot of danger--you know that, right?"

"Yeah, from Vol--You-Know-Who." He looked at Figg, unsure whether to trust her completely. "He rose again this summer--you know, right?"

She nodded slowly. "Yes. Yes, unfortunately, I do." She sighed, taking a sharp corner at sixty miles an hour. "Sometimes it would be nice to be like Fudge ..."

Ron looked at her hard. "Why Fudge?"

She shook her head. "Never mind."

_I am _never_ going to let her drive again,_ thought Harry, grabbing the car door as they zoomed over a series of potholes. _Doesn't she care that I'll end up bouncing right out of the car? Stupid potholes. It can't be safe._

"Is it because he's a blind idiot?" asked Harry. Ron and Figg snorted.

"Absolutely right, my boy," she said with a smile, narrowly missing a mailbox. "He simply won't admit what's staring him right in the face ..."

"Then why did you say it would be a good thing?"

"I don't know ... not having to deal with all of this would be nice, I meant."

Ron frowned. "What are you guys talking about?"

"At the end of last year? When Fudge came after I ... got back ... and he was all over Crouch Junior, who said the Dark Lord would be coming back, and he didn't believe me when I said I'd been there."

Ron snapped his fingers. "Right! I remember that. What a git."

"Here we are," announced Figg, braking rather precariously near the front gate. "Come on inside, boys."

"And thank God," muttered Ron, wiping the sweat off his forehead. Figg either didn't notice or ignored it.

She tapped her wand against the gate and murmured a charm. The gate sprang open, revealing a large castle with enormous gardens and ... a moat?

Ron stared. "How on earth do you _hide_ this thing? And who has a moat these days, anyway?"

"The moat's a security precaution. Lots of spells. Unplottable, you know, you can't put it on a map. Muggle-Repelling charms covering it. That sort of thing. And the gate will only open when it hears only two voices: mine or ... a friend's. Oh, and you can't see it--the castle--until the gate opens."

Harry's eyes narrowed a little as he though of Sirius. Was that who she was talking about? A friend? Or that other guy ... the Fletcher guy. Him?

"Now, you're staying here, Harry," said Figg, leading them over a drawbridge and into the castle. "And Ron, I believe you'll be going back to Hogwarts?"

Ron shrugged. "Dunno. Dumbledore didn't say."

She sighed. "Right. You can stay for the night, I guess. I'll talk to Dumbledore about it. He should be okay with it. And I think it'll do Harry some good to have someone his age around."

"You can't be that old," Harry said. "You look only ..."

Figg blew her breath out of the corner of her mouth, her bangs flying up. "Go ahead ... say it. Fifty. Sixty. Eighty."

Harry stared at her. "I was going to say thirty, actually."

She brightened up. "Really? Thanks."

"Yes, anyway," Ron said. "Is this place yours?" He gazed around him in awe, taking it all in--the crystal chandelier, the high ceiling, the shag carpet, the Turkish rugs, the expensive-looking wall-hangings ...

She smiled fondly at her castle. "Yeah. Really nice place. Not too cheap, though. But I didn't pay for it all."

"Really?" Harry asked. "Who did?"

"Oh ... Dumbledore ... some friends," she said vaguely, waving her hand around. "You know."

Harry didn't know, actually, but he wasn't about to press the issue.

* * * * *

Harry, Ron, and Figg sat at the dining table, sipping mugs of tea. It was almost pitch-black outside; the only source of light was a few candles placed around the table.

"You know," mused Ron, "I could really get used to this ..."

Figg traced the top of her mug with the tip of her finger. "Well, boys, there's something I have to talk to you about."

"Mmm? Really?" said Harry lazily. It was nice and warm, a relaxing setting, and the tea was wonderful ... he wondered what exactly was in it ...

"Don't tell anyone you saw me," she said.

Ron sat up straight, the tea in his mug sloshing over the edge. "Don't tell anyone we saw you? Why not?"

"Nobody's supposed to know I'm still alive."

"You're supposed to be _dead_?" asked Ron, his eyes wide.

She pressed her lips together, aware that she'd slipped about the "still alive" part. "Well ... it's a little more complicated than that, Ron. I was ... presumed ... dead a long time ago, and I saw no need to correct anyone about it."

"Why'd you let them think that?" asked Harry, his voice quiet.

Figg smiled humorlessly. "Curiosity killed the cat, my dears. And while I'm aware that neither of you is a cat, curiosity can be just as deadly to other species."


	4. Resurfaced Memories

THE PROPHECY OF FIRE  
Chapter Three: Resurfaced Memories

Written by Kouri no Ryuu

_There isn't a whole lot of point to this chapter, but oh well. Mostly just the Hermione stuff about Krum and the visit to Diagon Alley. (You'll see later why it's important.) You can also find this fic at or at its website: . Feel free to e-mail me at kouri_no_ryuu@direcway.com._

* * * * *

Hermione knocked on the front door to the Burrow, looking pale, tired--one could almost say she looked weary; that is to say, world-weary: the look of one who had seen it all, and didn't much like it.

The door opened. "Oh, my dear, you're finally here," said Mrs. Weasley with a kindly smile. "I thought you'd be here a day or two ago." She hustled Hermione inside, ordering the twins to carry her trunk and Ginny to help make Hermione comfortable.

Hermione looked around the living room of the Burrow. It hadn't much changed. In fact, it was exactly the same as she remembered it, wall hangings, no-heat fire and everything. It was comfortable.

After much fussing and making comfortable, Hermione finally sat down in a green armchair and watched Mrs. Weasley bustle around the kitchen for a few moments. "Well, I had some troubles with travel arrangements from Bulgaria, you know," she confided.

Mrs. Weasley busied herself with making iced tea. "My dear, whatever were you doing in Bulgaria?" she inquired. "Here, have some lemonade, girls; it'll cool you down." She handed Hermione a fresh glass. Then, without waiting for an answer to her question, Mrs. Weasley swooped outside to reprimand Fred for setting off several of Dr. Filibuster's Wet-Start, No-Heat Fabulous Fireworks in the front yard. He'd been trying to scare off the gnomes so he wouldn't have to do so much work.

Ginny and Hermione exchanged identical sighs of relief. Hermione hadn't been sure if Mrs. Weasley would still accept her, especially if she told her she was visiting a boyfriend in Bulgaria.

"Did you really go and visit Krum in Bulgaria?" asked Ginny in a hushed whisper, looking around them furtively. She, too, had accepted a tall glass of lemonade and now sat on the couch to Hermione's right.

Nodding, Hermione replied, "Yeah. He had an amazing estate: a Quiddtich field, of course, and even stuff for Muggle sports. And his house--or rather his mansion! Fifty bedrooms or more. Finally figured out what all of those were for." Ginny tried to ask what, but Hermione hurried on. "And it was enchanted, too, so that every morning you'd wake up and the house had rearranged itself. Not enough to make you get lost on your way to the breakfast table, of course, but it made each morning a little bit different." She smiled at the memory. "It was supposed to be for two weeks, right up until school started, but there you go." Hermione's voice held the slenderest thread of bitterness.

"What happened?" Ginny asked, her eyes wide.

Hermione sighed. "I was really very stupid. As it turns out, Viktor invites about a dozen girls over every summer,"--Ginny gasped--"and I even saw some Ravenclaw that I didn't know there. Turns out the _Witch Weekly_ does a piece on it every summer. Anyway, he said that every year there's one girl there that he really likes. This year he said it was me. Hooray." Hermione smiled wryly despite herself. "Actually, he came to talk to me after I had called a taxi out. By the way, I found all this out when I saw him making out with a flake named Rose Ytterby, who'm I'd met before and thought was his sister or cousin or something ... Anyway, he asked me why I was leaving, and he actually _told_ me that he 'loffed' me." Ginny laughed rather nastily at Hermione's imitation.

"So I told him," Hermione continued, "that if he loved me, as he said he did, I would be the only girl he wanted." She sighed again, and under the facade of uncaring, Ginny saw something like hurt shining in Hermione's cinnamon-brown eyes.

"I'm really sorry," Ginny offered.

But Hermione shook her head angrily. "Don't be."

But Ginny saw through the anger. "You really liked him, didn't you?" Hermione didn't even have to respond for Ginny to know the answer. "Are you going to be okay?" Ginny asked, concerned.

"Yeah, I'll be fine," assured Hermoine. "Don't worry about me." Jumping up, Hermione excused herself. "I should probably go and unpack my trunk now."

* * * * *

Hearing Hermione march up the stairs above him, George rocked back and forth from his heels to his toes. _Geez,_ he thought. _Heavy stuff going on. Always thought Krum was an okay guy ..._

He rather felt sorry for Hermione. Poor girl, to have her heart broken by a celebrity like that. And how she found out! Noticed them snogging in the bushes! How awful. He bit his lip thoughtfully.

George had three possible plans of action.

Option One. He could be absurdly nice and kindly toward Hermione, show her that he was "there for her," try and comfort her in her "darkest hour."

Not oddly, this option possessed no appeal for George. It simply wasn't his nature. He knew exactly what would happen if he tried that, like a very long, bright, clear photograph--perhaps a "movie"--playing in his mind. Hermione would notice that it simply wasn't his nature. Hermione would question him about his odd behavior. She would grill him about how he found out about her and Krum's break-up. Ultimately he would end up spilling the beans about his eavesdropping habits. And George knew for a fact that Hermione did not like sneaky, underhanded acts such as "accidently" overhearing. George did not particularly desire to face Hermione's wrath.

Well, there was always Option Two. Ah, good old standby, Option Two. Poke fun, laugh a lot, hope she cheered up a bit. Although both twins usually relied on Option Two: Making Ridiculous Jokes for any problem, George felt his conscience squirm. _Stupid bloody conscience,_ he thought, mentally narrowing his eyes at the unfamiliar feeling. _Had to appear now, did you? Just thought you'd make a house call and stop for tea and jam after your long absence, did you? At exactly the wrong moment?_ Jokes and humor, George knew better than Fred, would not help Hermione's current negative mood. She woudl just get even more sad--and quite angry--and the humor would certainly not assist time in healing all wounds. Besides, he woudln't be able to stand the hurt he would probably see on Hermione's face as he cracked rude jokes.

George couldn't stand to see anyone hurting. Perhaps that was why he made such an effort to banish it.

With a sigh, George settled for Option Three: Pretending the Eavesdropping Never Happened and Continue with Life as Normal, While Waiting for Exactly the Correct Moment to Insert a Somewhat Sympathetic Comment and Hope She Didn't Question It.

George generally didn't opt for this choice, owing to its lack of a nickname.

Funny thing was, George mused, was that he couldn't bring himself to be angry with Krum. How odd. Perhaps the years of idolization prevented it; or perhaps he was too glad that Ginny would have a proper companion for the summer to wish that Hermione had stayed in Bulgaria. Whatever it was, he didn't mind.

George set out to occupy himself with his fourth helping of toast and marmalade.

* * * * *

Harry chewed on the end of his last sugar quill--Ron had sent him a package of two dozen a few weeks before--while trying to figure out what to write to Hermione.

_Hi, Hermione, guess what? Ron and a lady named Arabella came to the Dursleys' house and rescued me with a really complicated escape plan that involved gardening!_

There _had_ to be a better way to state it. There just had to be.

_Hi, Hermione--_ Harry paused, then finally decided to just be as blunt as possible. _I'm at Hogwarts for the rest of the summer,_ he wrote, and looked over it again. That didn't start off too badly. _Ron and a woman named Arabella Figg came to the Dursleys' and tricked Aunt Petunia into letting them take me. It was really neat--and funny. Has anything interesting happened in Bulgaria lately? Oh, and send your owl to Hogwarts now--not the Dursleys. Likely they'll shoot and kill him or cage him or something._

Write back soon,  
Harry

Harry sealed it in a leftover envelope from his trunk, and unlocked Hedwig's cage. "Here, take this to Hermione," Harry said as he stuffed the letter in the owl's beak. "You know where she is." Hedwig tried to hoot in understanding, but all that came out was a muffled squeak. Harry pushed up the window and watched Hedwig spread her wings and fly away until she was a speck in the distance.

* * * * *

Cho Chang stuffed her hands in her robe pockets as she turned the corner and noticed the Ravenclaw common room at the end of the corridor, which was rather short.

Her steps were jerky and short as she completed the distance and recited the password in a flat voice. The portrait, one of a stuffy old man in a suit named Gregory Challance, swung open ("You young upstarts are entirely too demanding!") and Cho stepped inside. No one else was present.

_Why did I come at all? It's pointless,_ she thought, the contours of her face hardening into a stony frown. _Oh, yes: Mother. I should remember to thank her for this ride to hell,_ Cho thought sarcastically, striding across the common room and to the stairs to the girls' dormitory.

_I can't believe she threatened to burn all of my pictures of Cedric,_ was her bitter thought as she recalled the incident. . . .

* * * * *

_"Cho, you need to go to Hogwarts," her mother insisted firmly, taking her daughter by the shoulders and looking her in the eye. Cho glanced away, both sad and angry._

"I'm not going," Cho said stubbornly. Xian shook her head, rippling her long, dark hair.

"You will_ go!" Xian stated, letting go of Cho. Cho's mother picked up a framed photo of Cedric, which was lying flat, face-up on Cho's nightstand._

Xian held the picture up to the level of Cho's face. "I will burn your pictures of Cedric if you don't!"

She can't mean that,_ Cho thought, horrified. _She wouldn't do that! She couldn't!__

Xian correctly interpreted the terrified expression on her daughter's face. She held the framed photograph on opposite sides and faked snapping the frame in half. "Oh, yes I would," said Cho's mother grimly.

Cho's hands clenched at her sides. "Fine. I'll go," she grated out.

* * * * *

Tears of humiliation burned in Cho's eyes as she recalled the incident. As her mother had left the room, Cho had distinctly heard Xian mutter, "Something has to snap her out of her depression."

_What if I don't _want_ to snap out of my depression?_ she replied mentally, wishing she was psychic so that her mother would hear her. _But I couldn't let her burn my photographs. They're all I have left of him._

Having reached the dormitory door, Cho opened it and stepped inside the room. Sitting down on her designated bed, her fingers caressed the mahogony wood of the same frame of the picture Cho's mother had threatened to destroy. She ran her index finger over the photo Cedric's jawline, and he grinned up at her. Cho felt a pang in her heart.

"I can't live without you," she whispered to the photograph, who gazed back at her sadly. "I can't go on."

_Can't go on . . ._ The phrase echoed in her head.

_That's it,_ Cho realized. _The only way to escape this is for me to kill myself._ The prospect frightened her, as much as she didn't like to admit it.

_Isn't that a bit extreme?_ a very small voice in the back of her head asked.

* * * * *

_The next day._

Ron trudged around the corridors. _Absolute boredom,_ he thought. _Even the Burrow'd be better than this ..._ Immediately he squashed that thought.

"Hey, Ron!" came the bright voice of Justin Finch-Fletchey. "I didn't know you were a prefect." Justin grinned.

"I'm not," said Ron morosely. "I'm just staying here for the rest of the summer. And I'm bored out of my mind ..."

"Yeah, well, you know how it is. I heard we'll be going to Diagon Alley soon, to get stuff. Have you met Professor Blackstone yet?" queried Justin.

"Yeah, met her when I arrived. Potions professor, that's wild. Snape finally realized his absolute goal in life: to snag the DADA job. Wouldn't have seen that coming in a million years." Ron started to perk up a little.

"What fun _that'll_ be," commented Justin with cheerful sarcasm. "Learning about evil from the evilest of them all ... Well, I guess I'll see you later, then."

Ron continued down the hallway, ignoring Peeves's cackling comments of _"Had too many moldy peanuts, Weasley?"_ and _"Miss Norris got your arse?"_

Several minutes later, Ron heard the screech of sneaker skidding on stone. "Watch it, please!" hollered an unfamiliar voice.

His head jerked up just in time to see a girl he didn't know glare at him defiantly, her brown eyes flashing.

"Excuse me," said the girl in a tone of voice not unlike Professor McGonagall. "Next time, watch where you're going when you turn 'round a corner, please."

Her accent sounded odd--American, perhaps? How strange.

Ron shook himself and recovered from his shock. "Sorry about that," he apologized, stuffing his hands in his pockets and grinning sheepishly. "It's just so boring around here. I was going to the library and I almost fell asleep walking."

The girl cracked a smile. '"I know the feeling," she admitted. "But I haven't found my way around the castle yet. Kind of embarrassing, that is. Anyway, I was looking for the library, too. Can you tell me where it is?"

"Sure," Ron replied, and they set off.

"So, anyway, my name's Nerissa Warbeck. You?"

He hestitated just for a moment. "I'm Ron Weasley."

"Ron Weasley, huh?" she asked with great interest. "You're friends with Harry Potter, aren't you?"

"Er, yeah ..." Ron desperately wanted to find something else to talk about. "So, play any Quidditch?"

She stared at him in disbelief. "Quidditch? Absolutely not. Quodpot all the way."

"That's the American sport, right?" inquired Ron. "The one with exploding Quaffles--Quods, I mean?"

"Yes," she said firmly, "and it's the best, I can assure you."

"You know, I don't think I've ever met you before," said Ron, slowing down a little. "I thought I knew pretty well everyone here ..."

"You wouldn't know me," said Nerissa absently, biting her nail. "I'm a transfer student. Sixth year, got Sorted privately last week."

"Really? A transfer student?" His voice sounded interested. "Why did you transfer? And from where?" Nerissa glanced at him.

"The Salem Witches' Institute. It's in America. The state of Oregon. Also known as the state of nothingness. Except for all of those witch-burning museums Muggles have put up. Those are amusing." _So that's why her accent sounds so odd,_ noted Ron. But as she said that, her eyes flicked away in a familiar gesture--one he recognized from himself as someone who is unskilled at lying but does it anyway.

It was only much later that Ron would realize that she also hadn't answered the first question.

* * * * *

_Three days later._

Professor Blackstone had arranged an outing to Diagon Alley to replenish the students' school supplies and called a short meeting beforehand. It was in the Potions dungeon.

_It's hard to be in here and remember that Snape isn't going to teach in here anymore,_ Ron thought, gazing around at the unwelcomingly dark and damp room.

All of the students would take their trips in three independent groups: first the fifth years, then the sixth years, then the Heads. Ron would go with the fifth years.

"How many of you have enough money on hand to buy the supplies that you need?" she asked Ron, all the prefects, and Heads. Only a few hands were raised, including Draco's.

Blackstone nodded. "Then we'll have to stop by Gringotts' first," she said, almost to herself.

"Professor Blackstone? May I ask you something?" asked shy Susan Bones.

Blackstone looked up at the dark-haired girl. "Yes, of course, Miss Bones."

"How will we get there?" Susan asked softly, a frown creasing her forehead. "Flying carpets are illegal, it's much to far to walk, and not all of us are old enough to Apparate."

The Potions professor smiled. "I'm glad you asked. I'll be right back with our mode of transportation," she replied lightly and left.

Five minutes later, Professor Blackstone returned with many brooms suspended in front of her and her wand held out in front of her. Blackstone let the brooms fall gently to the ground before kneeling down in front of the stack, putting her wand in her robe pocket.

Morag MacDougal reached for the nearest broom and Blackstone waved him off. "Not yet, Mr. MacDougal," the professor said. Then she began addressing the entire group. "These are the newest line of Nimbus Brooms--the Nimbus 2002; just came out this summer," she explained, waving a hand at the elegant brooms before her.

"We'll ride them to Diagon Alley--it'll take a while, but it's the best we've got right now," Blackstone continued. "We would take the Hogwarts Express, but its fuel supplier has been late in delivering its shipment." With that, she said, "Mr. Malfoy."

"What?" Draco said in a bored voice, though Hermione could tell that he was eyeing the stack of brooms in interest.

The professor handed him the broom on the top of the stack. "MacDougal." And the rough Slytherin soon held a broom as well.

And she went on through all the names of the fifth-years. 

Ron took the Nimbus broom with great curiosity as his name was called. Its ash-wood handle felt smooth under her fingers, and he liked the way it felt. Blackstone continued calling all the names of the fifth-years.

"Now, I don't want any of you Quidditch players getting ideas," warned Blackstone. "These are rented brooms, Hogwarts doesn't own them, and they're not going to be the school brooms." A sigh of disappointment rose from the assembled group.

Finally Blackstone finished handing out the brooms; there was only one left, and she picked it up for herself. "I'm going to cast an attention-averting spell on us so the Muggles don't notice us," Blackstone said, retrieving her wand from her pocket. "I believe you learned that spell in Charms in your third year. If you've forgotten it, I'll explain the theory of it. An attention-averting charm diverts any notice of the charm's bearer. If anyone sees us, the spell will force them to look away and forget us."

Several of the students looked impressed. Blackstone commenced casting the spell. There was a slight shimmer in the air surrounding them, the kind that you see when heat rises off concrete in the summer. It made everyone appear slightly blurred and wavy. Ron rubbed his eyes, and when he glanced up again, everything looked normal.

"Mount your brooms," Blackstone said quietly. Everyone did. "Now, push off the ground."

Ron was delighted with flying this broom. It was a very sensitive broomstick, responding to his movements with a certain easy smoothness. The group skimmed over the treetops, and absently Ron noticed that he and Draco were in the lead.

True enough, after about an hour of fast flying, a Muggle woman holding a baby on her hip noticed them, then immediately looked away.

The entire trip took about two and a half hours. It would have taken less, but Seamus Finnegan and Morag MacDougal had started a mid-air fight, and it took twenty minutes for Blackstone to placate them both.

As soon as they reached Diagon Alley, Blackstone revoked the charm that surrounded the group. They first visited Gringotts, and then the group split up to buy personal supplies, with the agreement to meet back at a specific restaraunt for lunch at two. As Ron was about to enter Flourish and Blotts, he noticed a sign on the window. It said that Flourish and Blotts had started selling magazines and newspapers as well as just books. Ron saw two magazines in the window: _Magi Monthly_ and _Witch Weekly._ Both featured headlines such as "A Time-Turner Thief Among Us?" and "Top-Ten Charms to Keep Your Hot Warlock's Eyes on Only _You_!"

* * * * *

George sat down next to Hermione, who was curled up on the couch, staring at the heatless fire, her eyes glassy. He watched her face.

It didn't change.

Feeling a bit irked, George said, "Hey, Hermione," and waved a hand in front of her face.

Her eyes snapped into focus, and she turned to look at him. "Oh, hey, George. What's up?"

George leaned back. "Not much. I made a new trick candy today, just got back from shagging Alicia--and hey, I think I'll take over the world tomorrow."

Her index finger traced meaningless patterns onto the fabric of the couch. "That's great."

George chuckled. "What's wrong, Hermione?"

"Wrong? Nothing's wrong."

He gave her his best you-haven't-fooled-me look. "Please, Hermione. I may have only gotten five O.W.L.'s, but that doesn't make me stupid."

"Of course you're not, George."

"Then _talk_ to me." He looked at her with what could only be described as a gentle expression.

"I don't _want_ to."

"Too bad." Apparently, this was the wrong thing to say, because Hermione fairly exploded.

"You have _no_ idea what I'm going through!" she raged.

"No, I don't. Tell me about it."

"It's horrible. I liked him. I really did. And then he goes and snogs that selfish brat, and--"

By this point, George knew that Hermione wasn't talking to him anymore. In her mind, she was speaking to Krum, and he was sitting in front of her.

"--it's so hurtful, and heartless. It's embarrassing, degrading, humiliating, hideously so--but if he came to me again, I don't think I could say no! It was so great--to find someone that didn't care what I looked like or what I wore--I liked him _so much_--but now--" Her face crumpled.

George put an awkward arm around her shoulders, alarmed. "Hermione--I mean--don't _cry_. . . . He's not worth it. . . ."

"That's just it. He still _is_ a great guy. No matter what he did to me . . . he's still sweet--and friendly--" she sobbed.

"That's just your feelings talking," said George. "Where's the Hermione I know? The one that would quote divorce statistics and tell me about all those failed celebrity marriages? Come on, Hermione. Use your brain." He tapped her head. "You've got more than the rest of us, you know."

She smiled, but the tears still came, and her eyes were still sad. "Thanks, George."

"Hey, no problem. You know what will _really_ make you feel better?"

She raised her eyebrows, a little of her good humor returning. "Do I _want_ to know?"

"We could bash Krum," he suggested. "Spill out all of his dirty secrets. Boxers or briefs? Cute little ducky socks? Come on, there's gotta be _something_."

"He kisses like a toad," Hermione admitted, using the back of her hand to wipe away a few of the tears.

George sat up a little straighter. "Are you _serious_?"

She smiled. "No. But it's making me feel better, anyways."

"Darn," said George, snapping his fingers in mock-disappointment. "I was looking for blackmail material, here."

Hermione laughed: a little, sad laugh, but a laugh all the same. "Thanks."

"No problem, like I said," he said, grinning.

The tear tracks glistened on her cheeks. "No, really. I mean it. Thanks."

George shrugged, the epitome of fake modesty. "Oh, it's fine. Besides," he added, his eyes twinkling, "there's not many times during life you get to see the high-and-mighty Hermione Granger taken off her pedestal and looking like a regular person. It's refreshing."

She smacked him with a pillow, laughing. "Oh, whatever."


	5. The Prophecy of Fire

THE PROPHECY OF FIRE  
Chapter Four: The Prophecy of Fire

Written by Kouri no Ryuu

_Author's Notes: Muchas gracias to my awesome new beta-reader, ~*Cheng*~. You're amazing._

This chapter starts at the beginning of the school year. Yeah, kind of a gap. I know. Bear with me.

And hey--you know how I said this was going to be a four-part series? Well . . . now it's two. Possibly three. And everything beyond this story has changed. *twiddles thumbs* Okay, so the sequel is **Of Vampires and Sorceresses**, which covers the SECOND half of the Trio's fifth year. (There WILL be O.W.L. exams, by the way.) There's also a sixth year fic that's largely unplanned. I was thinking about using Giles from BtVS as a Hogwarts teacher for that one. Good idea or no?

Thanks to the reviewers of chapter three: **lost717**, **lissa james**, and **Meerkat**. You know how Mark Twain said he could live off a compliment for a month? You guys just increased my lifespan. :) So . . . to all you out there . . . if you want me to live a normal, healthy life, please review! *waves review flag*

* * * * *

_Flower in the crannied wall,  
I pluck you out of the crannies,  
I hold you here, root and all, in my hand,  
Little flower -- but if I could understand  
What you are, root and all, and all in all,  
I should know what God and man is._  
--Alfred Lord Tennyson, "Flower in the Crannied Wall"

* * * * *

"So, what does it feel like to be at the top of the school social ladder?" Harry asked Alicia Spinnet, a Chaser on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, and a seventh year.

Alicia shrugged and rolled her eyes. "Just like any other year. Trust me, it's not all it's cracked up to be."

"Still, 's cool," said Ron, through a mouthful of mashed potatoes. "Can't wait for seventh year myself." He gulped down his mouthful. "So, what's everyone's schedule look like?"

Hermione pulled hers out of her bookbag and unfolded it. "Transfiguration's the first class of the year," she observed, looking her schedule over, then added brightly, "I've got back-to-back classes every day. I don't even have a free period this year!"

Ron goggled at her. "You sound . . . _happy_ about it," he said, looking horrified. "I've got two free periods. What about you, Harry?"

"Yep," Harry said. "Two. Honestly, Hermione, how many classes did you sign up for?"

"Everything except Muggle Studies," Hermione said. "Didn't have room in my schedule for it, and they wouldn't let me have the . . .,"--she lowered her voice--"the you-know-what."

"Hermione, I swear, you're never going to be a spy," Ron said, with a sigh. "Almost everyone heard you."

At the Head Table, Dumbledore stood up and clapped his hands, the magically magnified sound ringing throughout the Great Hall. Every student looked up at him.

"Students, I have an extraneous announcement to make." His eyes twinkled. "I believe that many of you students were disappointed when I announced the lack of the Quidditch inter-house tournament last year. I'm sure you will be pleased when I tell you that, since there is no Triwizard Tournament to attend to this year, Quidditch is back on."

Plenty of students gave him a standing ovation, clapping and hollering and high-fiving each other (and some exchanging money for their bets gone wrong) and whistling. The noise was deafening. Harry and the twins were part of the standing crowd. Harry looked happier than he had in a long time, Hermione reflected.

"Excellent," George said, with great satisfaction, leaning back a little. "Quidditch. Great." His eyes glazed over at the possibilities.

"Now, since there was no Quidditch last year, tryouts were cancelled, as I'm sure you all know," Dumbledore continued. His voice turned grave. "Of course, many of our Quidditch players have graduated, and of course, we shall need a new Hufflepuff Seeker." He bowed toward the Hufflepuff table, where most of the students had become somber. "Quidditch tryouts will be held in two weeks, on the sixteenth of September." He sat back down, watching with amusement as the students whispered and discussed their broomsticks and cheered.

* * * * *

_September first, the first day of school._

Ginny Weasley trudged up the long staircase to Professor Trelawney's classroom in agony. With her free hand--her other hand was preoccupied with carrying her bookbag--she wiped a few beads of sweat off her forehead. The air inside the staircase was sweltering--especially so, since it was late summer.

_Why did I take Divination, anyway?_ Ginny thought faintly. _Oh, yes. Ron was ragging on her so, and I had to take her class just for the fun of it._ A weak grin formed on her lips. _And for an easy grade. And look what I ended up with? Sweaty robes that are sticking to my skin, and on top of that, double Divination with Slytherin! Fantastic. Why did I ever think this would be fun?_ To which she had no answer.

At long last, she reached the little cramped room below Professor Trelawney's classroom. "Finally," she breathed to herself in relief., but it was soon banished. About half of the Gryffindor and Slytherin fourth years were already present--and the small room was already cramped. _Oh, no,_ Ginny thought fearfully.

Colin Creevey was there, presently being squashed between two rather handsome--and large--boys, Alan and Ricky. Ginny glanced around the rest of the room--Natalia Grant was simultaneously pushing Joey Winton away and cuddling up to Alan, who looked rather revolted. June Sarria was trying to pick a fight with Marie Ramirez, but Marie was presently engaged in a very loud conversation about Korean martial arts with Evonne Yamara--who looked bored out of her mind--and ignored June.

Those were just the Gryffindors. There were twice as many Slytherins as Gryffindors in the room. And that was about half the class.

Apparently Divination was popular.

_No, no, no,_ Ginny groaned to herself. _This isn't happening. I wonder if there's any way to change my schedule. . . ._

Over the next ten minutes the other half of the class arrived, and Ginny was standing, praying for the moment when some kind of door would be opened and she would leave this personal hell. She had a painful cramp in her right leg, and she was fairly sure one of her wrists had been sprained. (June finally succeeded in fighting with Marie. However, due to the cramped room and Marie's extensive knowledge of martial arts, it did not turn out quite the way June had expected. Ginny, unfortunately, had been nearby at the time.)

Like a dream coming true, a loud creaking noise interrupted all arguments, discussions, and lectures. Ginny looked around quickly, trying to spot the magical door and be the first person out of this horrid place. "Look!" June cried, pointing upwards. Heads all over the room jerked up, just in time to spot a trapdoor opening and a sparkling silver ladder descending.

_Yes, yes, yes!_ Ginny thought victoriously, totally and immensely relieved. However, she had to scramble to be one of the first on the ladder, ruthlessly shoving and pushing people out of her way on her quest, her bookbag at her side. When Ginny was able to see the room around her, she picked one of the puffy chairs around a table and collapsed into it, dropping her bookbag next to the chair. It wasn't much cooler, due to the fire burning bright in the grate on the far side of the room, but at least it wasn't nearly as cramped.

After everyone was seated, a soft, penetrating voice said, "Simply lovely to see you all in the mortal realm. I am Professor Trelawney, teacher of beginner, intermediate, and advanced Divination. Welcome to Divination, beginner level." Frantically students looked around, finally locating the thin, angled woman clothed in a multicolored, multipatterned dress (if it could be called that). Two bright, sharp eyes shone through spectacles. "Divination is the complex art of foreseeing the future. Few people truly have the gift of foresight, but I expect you all to be diligent while training."

Ginny blinked. This Trelawney didn't seem too bad so far. Maybe a bit annoying--and she was a bit weird for having that fire lit in summer--but so far, so good. . . .

Trelawney continued in her soft tone, "This class will teach you the techniques of Divining--palm reading, reading tea leaves, Shinto fire-reading, et cetera--but if you don't have the Sight, training is useless."

Ginny began to wonder exactly what the "Sight" was. It sounded fairly crazy; maybe Ron was right about Trelawney.

"The Sight is the gift of foresight," the professor said, almost as if she was a psychic. That made Ginny feel a bit afraid--what if she was? That would make everything very uncomfortable. After all, who wanted a professor to see your innermost thoughts and desires?

"Please open your books to the first page of chapter one." Trelawney's voice had adopted a much more professional tone.

Ginny pulled out the thick book entitled _The Art and Methods of Forseeing the Future_ by Celestina Warbeck. The cover was a rich crimson and the title was scripted in silver.

"You may have noticed that this is a different textbook than the students last year used. Celestina Warbeck is a well-known singing sensation, but few know that she is a professional and gifted Seer as well. This book was published last year.

"This will explain all of the different types of Divining. Please read through them all as I begin explaining them."

Trelawney took in a soft breath, and when she spoke, her voice had reverted into her breathy, mysterious tone. "The most popular and well-known way of Divining--known even to Muggles--is palm reading. This is accomplished by observing the palm of a person's hand, noticing the creases and lines in the palm, and interpreting them to foretell that person's future. Palm-reading is quite accurate with some and less so with others. It's a very general method--not precise.

"The second method is reading tea leaves. Brew the tea with fresh tea leaves, drink the tea leaves, and interpret the lumps and mounds of the leaves left in the bottom of the cup. The shapes of the lumps are interpreted into signs, each having a specific meaning. Often you will have to drain the cup by holding it upside-down."

As Trelwaney move on to fire-reading and prediction by entrancement, Ginny listened with avid interest to Professor Trelawney's lecture. _Divination is fascinating!_ she thought, excited, taking in every word and copying notes onto parchment. _I can't believe Ron and Harry didn't like it at all._

"Today, I will show you the basics of fire-reading. Fire-reading was actually originally a wizarding concept, though Muggles soon discovered and adopted it as a part of the Shinto religion that is based in Japan. It is over 2,500 years old and is very precise--if performed correctly." She gazed around the classroom, looking as though she was skeptical that anyone had the talent.

Professor Trelawney made obscure, quick gestures with her hands, and then repeated them much more slowly. "Please make the motions I am making." Trelawney demonstrated each sign separately and slowly as the class followed her example.

"No, Miss Grant, not that. The 'moon' gesture is done like this." Professor Trelawney's spectacles flashed in the firelight as she turned to address the entire class. "With each motion is a mantra, a chant. Each chant is an element: Earth, moon, wind, fire, water, and so on. They are repeated as the signals are performed, kneeling in front of an enchanted fire."

Trelawney commenced to call each student up to the fire and had them kneel and perform the motions and mantra. "Miss Grant, please come up." Natalia looked exceedingly nervous--probably due to the professor correcting her in front of the class--but did as she was told. Ginny had to keep herself from snickering as Natalia fumbled over the motions and words. How in the world could this be so difficult for anyone? It was so easy and simple!

"Miss Ramirez. . . . Mr. Winton. . . . Mr. Creevey. . . . Miss Sarria. . . ." The list of names went on, and every student was unsuccessful. Ginny became anxious and wondered when she would be called up. Would she mess up like everyone else? Would she get the motions correct and in the right order? Would she--

"Miss Weasley."

_No time to be nervous now,_ Ginny told herself firmly. _If you mess up, that's okay because everyone else did, too._ Kneeling down, Ginny bowed her head slightly and began the mantra, accompanied by the motions--the correct ones.

Ginny's nervousness was replaced with calm and peace. _This is okay,_ she thought, relieved, and looked up at the fire. _Everything's going to be okay,_ she thought languidly.

The red-golden flames began to flicker--almost _dancing_, and began to grow in her mind as if they were filling the entire wall. Ginny didn't blink--couldn't blink. She didn't feel the heat from the fire, even as sparks flew. The fire burned vividly, engraving its image upon Ginny's mind. Slowly but surely, the flames became clearer and more crisp in her mind. Sparks jumped out of the enormous fire, but Ginny didn't flinch as they landed near her--she just kept watching.

Images began to appear in the fire--images like the dream she'd had during summer--images she didn't want to see again. She began to shake convusedly at the horror she saw--and then the pictures changed, to a wavy outline of . . . who? A girl with blond hair and bright eyes--a somewhat familiar face, but Ginny couldn't place it.

Strange thoughts invaded her mind. _Not what she seems--she's not what she seems._ "She's not what she seems," Ginny involuntarily murmured aloud. _The one with croceus hair will lead Hogwarts to an enemy._ "Croceus hair--enemy," mumbled Ginny, still repeating the hand gestures.

A new idea formed. _To placate the three Sisters--circulate time. The three Sisters must be placated._ "Must be placated," she repeated softly. "To circulate time . . ."

In half an instant, the lazy haze surrounding her disappeared and Ginny was thrust back into reality with a sharp jolt. "Wha--what?" she asked faintly. Shaking her head to clear it, Ginny looked around the room--and everyone but Professor Trelawney was gone.

"Where--where is everybody?" Ginny stammered, still not quite recovered from the shock.

Professor Trelawney was over the moon with delight. "I sent them away, of course. I knew if this was a real prediction, you shouldn't be distracted at all. Miss Weasley, that was quite amazing! Tell me exactly what you saw in the fire!" Trelawney was leaning over one of the tables, a sheet of parchment on the table and a quill in hand. She didn't look remotely mysterious or Seer-like anymore; instead she reminded Ginny of a ridiculously eager parent, excited about one of her kids actually succeeding in something. Maybe she was.

"Well--first I saw what I had in a dream over the summer," Ginny began, beginning to calm down and become coherent. "It was about a man being tortured by You-Know-Who, and killed. Then I saw a girl--she was very hazy, I couldn't make her out quite well. She had blond hair and bright eyes, that's all I could see and remember. And then a voice spoke--well, it didn't exactly speak, but I heard it--not really heard it, but just in my head, as if I was thinking." Ginny flushed, knowing how insane that must have sounded and wondering what Professor Trelawney would say.

If anything, Trelawney seemed even more impressed. "That's quite all right, dear. What did this voice say to you?"

"It mentioned hair--I think it said 'croceus hair' and something about leading Hogwarts and an enemy." She frowned in concentration. "Oh yes--it said that a person with croceus hair would lead Hogwarts to an enemy. I assumed the person was the blond girl I saw in the fire--"

"It must be--croceus is Latin for _yellow_," Trelawney interrupted, hastily copying everything onto the parchment. "Go on, dear."

"Then it changed," Ginny continued. "It said that to placate the three Sisters, you had to circle time--no, it said _circulate_ time. And that the three Sisters _had_ to be placated. Then I sort of . . . woke up and everything disappeared." Ginny's brow furrowed. "It was quite strange."

Trelawney murmured to herself, "Three Sisters, three Sisters. I know I've heard it before." Her voice rose to its normal level (normal for her, anyway) and she addressed Ginny. "My dear, you are a true Seer!" Trelawney beamed.

"I am?" Ginny was clearly not convinced.

"Didn't you notice that no one else even performed it correctly?" Trelawney laughed airily. "My dear, you were the only one in the class to even perform it correctly, let alone make a prediction. Of course you're a Seer!"

"Wow," breathed Ginny. "I--I never even imagined I would be . . ." She trailed off.

"Anything special? Of course you didn't, what with your older brothers 'stealing the show,' so to speak. But you are! I might even be able to promote you to the intermediate Divination class--it's much more interesting and smaller as well, dear--after holiday break." Trelawney smiled. "You'd have to work especially hard and perhaps come in for extra time between classes, but since you are willing to . . ."

"I am! I mean, I'm willing. Very much."

"Of course you do, dear. I knew that already."

* * * * *

Hermione and Ron sat in great big armchairs in the common room, facing each other. Between them lay a chessboard.

Ron considered the board thoughtfully. Dozens of options presented themselves to his mind, but only in five lay the ability to win the game. His grin was impish as he glanced up at Hermione. Expertly, Ron moved is bishop into position. "Checkmate." He grinned at her angry expression.

Hermione threw up her hands in disgust with herself. "Honestly," she fumed. "How I could not have seen that coming, I don't know." Sighing, she gathered up the black chess pieces and handed them to Ron.

"You're just mad because I'm better than you at something," he pointed out, drawing himself up importantly.

She glared at him, but most of her annoyance had faded, so she didn't look quite as menacing as she had hoped.

"Another game?" he suggested, offering the black set to her again.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "I've had my daily prescribed dosage of humiliation today, thanks." _It's really odd that he hasn't mentioned Quidditch tryouts yet,_ she mused. _Normally he'd be wild about them. . . . I wonder if there's something wrong?_

"Ron," she said abruptly, "what do you think of Quidditch tryouts?"

Ron jerked slightly in response to her question. Carefully keeping his expression blank, he replied, "What about them?"

That wasn't quite the reply Hermione had expected. She blinked. "What?"

"Well, why should I care about Quidditch tryouts?"

Ron's monotone voice made Hermione think that he wasn't being entirely truthful. "And this is from the Boy Who's Obsessed with Quidditch?" _I did _try_ not to sound sarcastic,_ she thought, self-consolingly.

He glared at her, his indifferent facade gone. "Why do you even care?" he demanded, bitingly, loudly. Ginny, who was the only other person in the common room, glanced up from her book across the room, and left quietly.

Now they were alone.

A flush rose to her cheeks. "I was just wondering, that's all," she protested, folding her arms over her chest and sitting up a little more straight. "No need to get so upset, Ron."

His anger visibly deflated, and he leaned back into his chair, chin falling to his chest for a moment. "You want to know why, after all these years, I love Quidditch, and haven't once tried out for the House team?" he asked, picking at a loose red thread in his armchair.

"Well, yes," Hermione said, unconsciously leaning forward to hear his answer.

"Because I'd get picked."

Ron's reply echoed throughout the empty room, ringing in Hermione's ears. "Then why . . .?"

"With Fred, George, Harry, and Fred's girlfriend all on the team to feel sorry for me, I'd be sure to get chosen." He paused. "If I'm going to be on the Quidditch team, I want to do it by myself. D'you understand?" Ron looked at Hermione, his brown eyes uncertain.

"Well, yeah, Ron, but--do you really want that to stand in your way?"

_Practical Hermione,_ he thought. _She can do Arithmancy problems until the end of time, but she hasn't figured out real life yet._

Ron jerked out the thread he had been toying with. "Of course I do! I was just going to wait until next year, when the twins were gone, and then try out. . . ." He sighed. "You don't know what it's like, having to live up to five brothers. . . ."

When Hermione spoke, her voice was icy. "Oh, I don't? I couldn't possibly imagine?"

Ron restrained himself from rolling his eyes. "Hermione, you know that's not what I meant! But if I got on the team now, everyone would think that it was just because of Fred and George. And you know what? They'd be right." He scowled. "They'd feel all sorry for me. I hate pity."

"You should try out anyway," urged Hermione. "Ron, you shouldn't let that keep you from Quidditch." She smiled faintly. "I may not have much interest in it myself, but I'm not blind to the fact that you love it. You shouldn't _not_ try on account of your brothers."

He looked at her, and Hermione saw the same stubborn quality in his eyes that she'd seen when trying to get Harry and Ron to make up the year before; when she and Ron had fought over whether her cat Crookshanks had eaten Ron's pet rat, Scabbers, during their third year; when Ron had tried to curse Draco Malfoy with slugs the year before that; and when Ron had tried to levitate his feather during Charms class in their first year. "It still wouldn't be getting on the team fairly." His mouth was set. "If I get onto the Quidditch team, I want to get on because I'm _good,_ not because of the twins."

"But Ron, you _are_ good!" said Hermione, a hint of desperation in her voice. "Look--I'll talk to your brothers, and Harry, and the other players, and tell them that you want good, fair, judging between them, and all that--just _try_, for Merlin's sake!" she bargained.

He eyed her, considering. He was also more than a little impressed. _And this _is_ something I've wanted to do since . . . well, since forever,_ he thought. Out loud, he said, "Well, if you do that . . . I'll try out, I guess." He nodded, beginning to smile.


End file.
